Storm Over Warlock | Page 7

Only one Thorvald had
ever noticed Shann's existence in the Survey camp, and that had been
Garth.

Garth Thorvald, a far less impressive--one could say "smudged"--copy
of his brother. Swaggering with an arrogance Ragnar never showed,
Garth was a cadet on his first mission, intent upon making Shann
realize the unbridgeable gulf between a labor hand and an officer-to-be.
He had appeared to know right from their first meeting just how to
make Shann's life a misery.
Now, in this slit of valley well away from the domes, Shann's fists
balled. He pounded them against the earth in a way he had so often
hoped to plant them on Garth's smoothly handsome face, his
well-muscled body. One didn't survive the Dumps of Tyr without
learning how to use fists, and boots, and a list of tricks they didn't teach
in any academy. He had always been sure that he could take Garth if
they mixed it up. But if he had loosed the tight rein he had kept on his
temper and offered that challenge, he would have lost his chance with
Survey. Garth had proved himself able to talk his way out of any scrape,
even minor derelictions of duty, and he far out-ranked Shann. The
laborer from Tyr had had to swallow all that the other could dish out
and hope that on his next assignment he would not be a member of
young Thorvald's team. Though, because of Garth Thorvald, Shann's
toll of black record marks had mounted dangerously high and each day
the chance for any more duty tours had grown dimmer.
Shann laughed, and the sound was ugly. That was one thing he didn't
have to worry about any longer. There would be no other assignments
for him, the Throgs had seen to that. And Garth ... well, there would
never be a showdown between them now. He stood up. The Throg ship
had disappeared; they could push on.
He found a break in the cliff wall which was climbable, and he coaxed
the wolverines after him. When they stood on the heights from which
the falls tumbled, Taggi and Togi rubbed against him, cried for his
attention. They, too, appeared to need the reassurance they got from
contact with him, for they were also fugitives on this alien world, the
only representatives of their kind.
Since he did not have any definite goal in view, Shann continued to be
guided by the stream, following its wanderings across a plateau. The

sun was warm, so he carried his jacket slung across one shoulder. Taggi
and Togi ranged ahead, twice catching skitterers, which they devoured
voraciously. A shadow on a sun-baked rock sent the Terran skidding
for cover until he saw that it was cast by one of the questing falcons
from the upper peaks. But that shook his confidence, so he again sought
cover, ashamed at his own carelessness.
In the late afternoon he reached the far end of the plateau, faced a climb
to peaks which still bore cones of snow, now tinted a soft peach by the
sun. Shann studied that possible path and distrusted his own powers to
take it without proper equipment or supplies. He must turn either north
or south, though he would then have to abandon a sure water supply in
the stream. Tonight he would camp where he was. He had not realized
how tired he was until he found a likely half-cave in the mountain wall
and crawled in. There was too much danger in fire here; he would have
to do without that first comfort of his kind.
Luckily, the wolverines squeezed in beside him to fill the hole. With
their warm furred bodies sandwiching him, Shann dozed, awoke, and
dozed again, listening to night sounds--the screams, cries, hunting calls,
of the Warlock wilds. Now and again one of the wolverines whined and
moved uneasily.
Fingers of sun picked at Shann through a shaft among the rocks,
striking his eyes. He moved, blinked blearily awake, unable for the first
few seconds to understand why the smooth plasta wall of his bunk had
become rough red stone. Then he remembered. He was alone and he
threw himself frantically out of the cave, afraid the wolverines had
wandered off. Only both animals were busy clawing under a boulder
with a steady persistence which argued there was a purpose behind that
effort.
A sharp sting on the back of one hand made that purpose only too clear
to Shann, and he retreated hurriedly from the vicinity of the excavation.
They had found an earth-wasp's burrow and were hunting grubs,
naturally arousing the rightful inhabitants to bitter resentment.
Shann faced the problem of his own breakfast. He had had the

immunity shots given to all members of the team, and he had eaten